


This Night

by Telas_Selar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anorexic! Sherlock, Bisexual John Watson, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Fluff, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Greg is in denial, John is a concerned boyfriend, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Previous history of suicide attempts, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 12:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18756325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telas_Selar/pseuds/Telas_Selar
Summary: When John confronts him about his aversion to food, Sherlock takes it as the final push to kill himself.





	This Night

Sherlock was running. 

Light and sound seemed to blur as he rushed by, and the sweet taste of rain was on his lips, a stark contrast to the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Forgive me, John” he whispered to no one in particular, the cool night air making him shiver in a way he hadn't thought possible. 

He stumbled, throwing out one hand against a freezing brick wall. His breaths came in shallow gasps and he could barely stand. 

_ Life is a symphony of light and sound _ .  _ Sadness is but an emotion, but sooner or later sadness will become something more dangerous. All paths will come to an end, and if you are not careful, you will bring about the end of yours sooner than many would like.  _

A carefully worded one-way conversation Mycroft had had with him two years ago, as he watched his chest rise and fall as he lay in a hospital bed after he'd tried to slit his wrists. Sherlock had deeply dreaded the hour that Mycroft would ask him why but that hour never came. 

Now, he let go of the wall and shakily wrapped his arms around himself, caressing the skin softly, ignoring the deeply painful burning sensation that came from denying himself the one thing that he could not handle. 

“You need to eat!” John had yelled, gripping him by his shirt collar, real concern in his eyes. 

“I already ate” He'd lied, knowing how obvious his lie was, and his flatmate had let go of him in desperation, threatening to do everything from call Mycroft to call Lestrade (the latter for some reason he couldn't fathom), and that was when he'd lost it. Not even stopping to put on a coat, he'd left in as dignified a fashion as he could manage, yet not a single rational thought remained in his head. 

Running through the streets of London at night was a dangerous thing to do but he truly didn't care.

Sherlock Holmes had been suicidal for a very long time, but this…this was just another excuse. Another excuse to leave. Permanently. 

John probably thought he was trying to get his attention, an unsurprising assumption, but the thought of it was the one thing that hurt the most. He couldn't tell him he loved him. He couldn't admit the one thing that he couldn't deny. 

Sherlock didn't know how to tell him, but some part of him, deep down knew that this wasn't the problem. 

He was afraid. 

He was lonely. 

He was depressed. 

He was hopeless. 

And he cared deeply about it, no matter what he said. 

“You resent everyone around you, brother mine” Mycroft had told him. “Perhaps you don't trust them, lowly humans as they are, but you must talk to someone. Eventually.”

“I don't need them” Sherlock had responded. “They're insufferable, and their irrational emotions drive me barking mad.”

“You're in hospital after you tried to kill yourself. 

_ Again _ .” Mycroft pointed out, twirling his umbrella. “Are you really trying to tell me that wasn't an emotional response?”

“It was a logical response.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I don't deserve to live. I don't  _ need _ to live.”

And that was when Mycroft had forced him to start taking antidepressants.

Of course, he didn't really take them. Was a small blue pill supposed to magically cure his problems, his thoughts, his deepest, darkest fears? 

He'd tipped the whole bottle down the sink ages ago. 

Now, as he leaned back against the wall that seemed intent on freezing his bones, he felt for the small vial in his coat pocket. 

Sherlock really didn't think that seeing the disappointment in his brother's gaze was something he'd ever want to see again, no matter how much he intoned that he didn't care. 

He knew he shouldn't have run, but really, what other choice did he have? He couldn't do this there, not now. 

“All paths will come to an end” he muttered to himself, as he swallowed the bile in his throat and forced himself to relax, before he unscrewed the vial and tipped the contents down his throat. 

 

Back at 221B, John Watson rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and wondered. 

Wondered about this beautiful, wonderful man he loved, who could be such a foolish idiot at times. 

Despite his irritability, John hadn't expected him to run off. And despite the fact that he'd threatened to make calls, he truly had no intention of making them. 

Pulling away from the window, John texted his flatmate with shaking hands. 

_ I'm worried, Sherlock _ he typed.  _ You know I am, you twat, so come home. Don't keep scaring me like this. Please, just be sensible about it. _

And he waited, phone in one hand, his back against the cool glass.

He waited for a long time before Sherlock's response came up on screen. 

_ I'm sorry, John.  _

A cold chill settled over the doctor as he quickly texted back. 

_ And? _

Sherlock's response was faster this time. 

_ That's all there is.  _

And that was when John really did call Lestrade. 

  
  


Sherlock opened his eyes blearily at the sound of police sirens. 

His muscles had become increasingly more difficult to control as he'd typed out what he meant to be a final message, and now, he could barely move at all. 

The poison he'd taken was ingenious, some tribal concoction that worked wonders. Except…it took a lot of time to work. 

Far too much time. He'd wanted to say what he felt, all he felt, but the words wouldn't come. 

He'd wanted to at least tell John the truth, just for once but he'd hesitated a second too long, and now it was too late. 

He closed his eyes again, lips parted slightly, as he felt himself to slip a shade closer into unconsciousness. He didn't respond when they shouted his name, he didn't even hear their hurried footsteps, nor did he feel Lestrade taking his pulse despite the medics’ conclusions. 

But he did feel it when John kissed him, hours later in the hospital, a kiss that both astounded him and caused him a surprising rush of pleasure. 

“John?” He mumbled, still hazy. He felt strange, as though gravity had somehow grown stronger over the time he'd been unconscious. 

“Don't you bloody think you can leave me” the doctor told him, sounding choked. “I love you, everything about you, from those…cheekbones.. To that aggravating attitude of yours. Don't you bloody think you can leave me, Sherlock, or I swear-”

Sherlock just kissed him back in response, realising for the first time that his worst fear was completely untrue. 

John Watson loved him back. 

  
  
  



End file.
